Read Online Peter Benchley's Creature by Peter Benchley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Benchley
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Crustacea—shrimps and crabs—took shelter until they were mature enough to fend for themselves on the bottom; a fist-sized jellyfish with a translucent purple membrane on its topside that looked like a sail, and long dangling tentacles that, Chase explained, stung its prey to death—a Portuguese man-o'-war. Fascinated, Max touched one of the tentacles and recoiled with a yelp as it stung his fingertip.
"It's early for them to be around," Tall Man remarked. "The water must be warming up fast."
When they were half a mile from the island, Chase pointed to a small Institute buoy bobbing off the starboard bow. Tall Man took the boat out of gear, letting it coast up to the buoy, as Chase picked up the boat hook and held it over the side. Chase snagged the buoy and brought it aboard. It was attached to a length of rope.
"Pull," he said to Max.
Max grabbed the rope and began to haul it aboard. "What is it?" he asked.
"An experiment," Chase said, dropping the boat hook and helping Max pull on the rope. "A big problem around here is lost lobster pots. Boat propellers cut the buoys off, or storms carry them away or the ropes just rot and fall apart. Anyway, there are pots lost all over the bottom."
"So?"
"They're killers. All sorts of creatures, not just lobsters—fish, crabs, octopuses—go inside after the baits and can't get out. They die and become bait themselves, so more and more creatures come in and die. The pots keep killing for years and years."
The pot bumped against the side of the boat, and Chase leaned overboard and heaved it up onto the gunwale. It was a rectangular wire cage, reinforced with wooden slats. On one end was a wire funnel—the way in; on the other, a square door made of a flimsy mesh material and secured with twine.
"What Tall and I've been trying to do," Chase said, "is design a biodegradable door. Pots should be pulled at least once a week, preferably twice, so we've been looking for a cheap material for the door that'll degrade after about ten days. The lobsterman can change the door every week, but if the pot's lost, the critters can get free before they die."
Max bent close to the pot and peered inside. "It's empty," he said.
"We didn't put any bait in it," Chase explained. "We're not trying to catch things, we're trying to save 'em." He tugged gently at the mesh in the door, and several strands broke. "This cotton blend may be the thing," he called up to Tall Man. "It's breaking down real well."
When Tall Man didn't reply, Chase looked up at the flying bridge and saw him bend down, his hand cupped over one ear, listening.
Suddenly Tall Man straightened up. "We got trouble, Simon," he said. "A couple of yahoos are yammering over channel sixteen that they've just hooked Jaws."
"Damn!" Chase said. "Can you tell where they are?"
"About three miles to the northeast, sounds like, just this side of Block."
"Let's go," Chase said. He shoved the lobster pot overboard and tossed the rope and buoy after it.
Tall Man put the boat in gear, pushed the throttle forward and, as the boat leaped ahead, turned it in a tight arc and headed toward Block Island.
Max held on to the railing and bent his knees as the bow of the boat thumped into the waves. "Do you think it's our shark?" he shouted to his father.
"I'd bet on it," Chase said. "She's the only one we've seen."
The boat rose up onto a plane and skimmed over the surface. The hump of Block Island grew swiftly larger, and as they watched, a small white dot took shape on the surface of the sea and soon became the hull of a boat.
"What are you gonna do?" Max asked. "What can you do?"
"I'm not sure, Max," Chase said, staring grimly ahead. "But something."
* * *
"They're two kids," Tall Man said, looking through a pair of binoculars. "Sixteen, eighteen, maybe . . . fishin' from a twenty-foot outboard. Stupid bastards. They better hope they don't land the shark; it'll turn that boat into splinters."
Tall Man throttled back as he
"It's early for them to be around," Tall Man remarked. "The water must be warming up fast."
When they were half a mile from the island, Chase pointed to a small Institute buoy bobbing off the starboard bow. Tall Man took the boat out of gear, letting it coast up to the buoy, as Chase picked up the boat hook and held it over the side. Chase snagged the buoy and brought it aboard. It was attached to a length of rope.
"Pull," he said to Max.
Max grabbed the rope and began to haul it aboard. "What is it?" he asked.
"An experiment," Chase said, dropping the boat hook and helping Max pull on the rope. "A big problem around here is lost lobster pots. Boat propellers cut the buoys off, or storms carry them away or the ropes just rot and fall apart. Anyway, there are pots lost all over the bottom."
"So?"
"They're killers. All sorts of creatures, not just lobsters—fish, crabs, octopuses—go inside after the baits and can't get out. They die and become bait themselves, so more and more creatures come in and die. The pots keep killing for years and years."
The pot bumped against the side of the boat, and Chase leaned overboard and heaved it up onto the gunwale. It was a rectangular wire cage, reinforced with wooden slats. On one end was a wire funnel—the way in; on the other, a square door made of a flimsy mesh material and secured with twine.
"What Tall and I've been trying to do," Chase said, "is design a biodegradable door. Pots should be pulled at least once a week, preferably twice, so we've been looking for a cheap material for the door that'll degrade after about ten days. The lobsterman can change the door every week, but if the pot's lost, the critters can get free before they die."
Max bent close to the pot and peered inside. "It's empty," he said.
"We didn't put any bait in it," Chase explained. "We're not trying to catch things, we're trying to save 'em." He tugged gently at the mesh in the door, and several strands broke. "This cotton blend may be the thing," he called up to Tall Man. "It's breaking down real well."
When Tall Man didn't reply, Chase looked up at the flying bridge and saw him bend down, his hand cupped over one ear, listening.
Suddenly Tall Man straightened up. "We got trouble, Simon," he said. "A couple of yahoos are yammering over channel sixteen that they've just hooked Jaws."
"Damn!" Chase said. "Can you tell where they are?"
"About three miles to the northeast, sounds like, just this side of Block."
"Let's go," Chase said. He shoved the lobster pot overboard and tossed the rope and buoy after it.
Tall Man put the boat in gear, pushed the throttle forward and, as the boat leaped ahead, turned it in a tight arc and headed toward Block Island.
Max held on to the railing and bent his knees as the bow of the boat thumped into the waves. "Do you think it's our shark?" he shouted to his father.
"I'd bet on it," Chase said. "She's the only one we've seen."
The boat rose up onto a plane and skimmed over the surface. The hump of Block Island grew swiftly larger, and as they watched, a small white dot took shape on the surface of the sea and soon became the hull of a boat.
"What are you gonna do?" Max asked. "What can you do?"
"I'm not sure, Max," Chase said, staring grimly ahead. "But something."
* * *
"They're two kids," Tall Man said, looking through a pair of binoculars. "Sixteen, eighteen, maybe . . . fishin' from a twenty-foot outboard. Stupid bastards. They better hope they don't land the shark; it'll turn that boat into splinters."
Tall Man throttled back as he
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